


It's Tradition

by Callmeisolde



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Foggy is a hugger, Foggy is not taking any of that, Gen, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson at Columbia, Matt has daddy issues obviously, Matt is trying to deal with his shit, STAT, because this is serious matt, but also refuses to acknowledge he even has shit to deal with, for chapters 1-3, platonic friendship, post defenders chapter 7, pre defenders chapter 6, season one for chapter 4, season two for chapter 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-01-30 06:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12647676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callmeisolde/pseuds/Callmeisolde
Summary: By the time they arrived at the bar near the cemetery, the same run-down, musty establishment they had visited the year previously, colour had begun creeping back into Matt’s face. He looked less clammy. He agreed to have some fries with his scotch.When the alcohol arrived they sat in silence for a few beats before Foggy raised his glass.“How ‘bout a toast?”“A toast?” Matt’s voice still didn’t sound right, he sounded bone tired.“To battlin’ Jack Murdock.” Foggy blurted.The edge of Matt’s mouth twitched. He raised his glass. “He fought a good fight.”And they drank.





	1. You want a drink?

It’s the first year — Foggy is going to have to get used to Matt’s mood swings if he’s going to last ‘till their final stage walk. Three years more of sulking, sullen Matt might be enough to send Foggy over the edge.

Normally, Matt is the best bud Foggy’s ever had. He’s funny and charming and self-deprecating. He makes blind jokes, spews law jargon at inappropriate intervals and get’s drunk off of two beers. Plus, he’s a chick magnet and just about the best wing-man Foggy’s ever had. Regular, everyday Matt is about as much fun as Foggy’s ever had with a roommate. College had nothing on Columbia. Things were going awesome.

Until they weren’t.

Not once in the last month and a half had Foggy seen Matt skip a class, or sleep in for that matter. He was always up before dawn studying something, making sure he had all the handouts pre-prepared in braille or working with his screen reader. He was always two steps ahead, late to bed and early to rise.

One day, early October, Matt didn’t get out of bed.

He didn’t seem sick. He wasn’t coughing, didn’t look feverish. He just lay in bed staring at the ceiling and rolled over on his side when Foggy asked if he was going to class. Foggy returned later to grab some papers for study hall and Matt was still there. Hadn’t even moved. When evening settled over the campus Matt still hadn’t shown any signs of life and every time Foggy tried to start a conversation he seemed to burrow more deeply into the bed to get away.

The next day, Matt was a new version of silent. He sat very still, often with his head in his hands. He took truncated, shuddering breaths like his lungs weren't quite cooperating. His body seemed to be wound too tightly and he jumped at every sound in the dorm (including the door closing at the other end of the hall and the bass in the music three floors up). As far as Foggy could tell, he hadn’t eaten since Wednesday. He hadn’t cracked a book and he didn’t even have any headphones in _so what the heck was he doing_?

Foggy wasn’t sure what to do about it, but it was distracting and more than a little concerning. Deciding the silence had worn between them long enough he moved cautiously to the end of Matt’s bed and threw himself to the mattress with a bounce.

“So, Matt.”

Matt’s eyes snapped open and he scrabbled at his end table looking for his glasses. Foggy retrieved them from in front of Matt on the bed and held them out.

“Right in front of you buddy, here.”

With his red tinted glasses in place, Matt seemed marginally more comfortable. Foggy tried not to feel hurt, he thought they’d gotten over this weeks ago.

“Matt, I’m starting to get worried about you, how worried should I be — maybe give me a scale?”

Matt looked like he would rather be falling into the open maw of the Sarlaac in Return of the Jedi than answer Foggy’s question honestly.

“Foggy, I’m fine. Really.”

“Bud. Pal. You don’t seem fine.”

Matt grimaced, reached out a hand for Foggy’s knee and patted it. “Really. I’m OK, just stressed out.”

“This doesn’t seem like stressed out. I’ve seen stressed out. It looks like you, sitting up in bed, one in the morning, pitch darkness, reading braille faster than I am capable of digesting information. Like some kind of creepy gargoyle. This is different. You haven’t left the room in two days, I haven’t seen you eat and you’re barely sleeping. You’re not reading. Or listening to anything — what are you doing?”

“I’m meditating.”

“Dude. What the fuck.” Foggy bounced impatiently on the mattress and Matt looked about ready to throw himself off the bed and hide.

“Foggy, I appreciate the concern it’s just… the date.”

Foggy looked at him incredulously and then shook his head, “I just looked at you like you’re insane. What date?”

Matt took the glasses back off and scrubbed his face impatiently with his hands.

“It’s an anniversary. Of … something bad that happened. It always makes me... a little anxious.”

Foggy felt a little something deep in the pit of his stomach start to knot and get cold. He pushed it down and tried not to examine the feeling further. “Something bad?”

“It always sneaks up on me,” Matt breathed, his shoulders sagged a bit and he shook his head like he might be able to dispel the fog around it. “Not really. That’s wrong — I know it’s coming for weeks and I think I can escape it if I just prepare enough, you know?”

“Not really…” Foggy started.

“Like it’s a big exam coming up and I need to cram even though I know everything, I’m stressed out and I’m making it worse by… gargoyling.” He cracked Foggy a weary smile and it’s more than he’s got out of him in probably a week so that’s something.

“I get it.” He nodded solemnly. “Matt, I’m going to hug you.”

“Ugh, Foggy…” Matt tried to squirm away on the bed but he didn’t really have anywhere to go and he wasn’t saying no so...

“Too bad buddy.” He wrapped his arms around Matt’s shoulders and the smaller man stiffened for a second before relaxing into the embrace. He breathed damp into the crease of Foggy’s neck, the movement of Foggy’s hair tickling his shoulder.

“Ya OK, thanks, Fog.”

“So what’s the date,” Foggy asked when he released Matt.

“It’s just… a bad thing that happened. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Foggy nodded, considering quietly all the bad things that had happened to Matt. Blinded. Orphaned. Sure. He didn’t want to think about those things either and they hadn't even happened to him.

“Is it… today?”

“No.” Matt sighed, “It’s tomorrow.”

October 19th. Foggy nodded solemnly. “So… what’s tomorrow going to be like? You’ve already … meditated … for two days.”

“It’s going to suck,” Matt sighed. “Like, really hard.”

“OK.” Foggy clapped his hands together. “What can I do?”

Matt seemed to be considering him really intensely, like all his concentration was funneling into that slightly unfocused, over the shoulder gaze. He bit his lower lip a little and Foggy really, really wanted to hug him again.

“I...I probably won’t want to eat anything. Or… leave the dorm much. I’ll have to go out eventually because there’s something I need to do, but I’m gonna be shit company. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s OK bud. I get it. I’ll hang around, work on some papers, we can watch a movie, then I’ll go with you wherever it is you need.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Matt insisted. It seemed like it was beginning to take a lot of effort for Matt to continue this conversation. He was listing to the left on the bed, leaning away from Foggy and fiddling with his glasses like he wanted to put them back on.

“Hey, Matt, I’m your friend. I want to help. Let me help.”

Matt’s mouth did this little gaping thing, like a fish. He opened it and closed it about three times. Foggy watched suspiciously.

“Matt, I’m going to hug you again.”

Matt closed his mouth and nodded. “Ya, OK.”

#

Turns out Matt was right, he was shit company.

This time, Foggy was prepared. He was armed with old action movies. Die Hard. Die Harder. Die Hardest. That one's made up. The movies that he couldn’t find descriptive audio for received Foggy’s own brand of narration. He thought he was hilarious and Matt might have smiled once or twice.

He had jello cups and ice cream. Things that always made him feel better when he was in a funk or sick.

He even held off on the hugging for the most part when it became obvious that Matt was not in any mood for physical contact.

Instead, they lounged next to each other on the bed. Matt sometimes lay straight out with his hands at his sides and stared at the ceiling while the movie (and Foggy) droned in the background. Sometimes he sat up like he was watching. Sometimes he just curled in on himself and Foggy rubbed little circles between his shoulder blades.

Foggy watched time crawl across the dorm room. The shapes cast on the grey duvet by the sun shining through cheap plastic window slats acted like a sundial. Eventually, the colours in the room started to change to a hazy, saturated gold and then deepen into a musky blue. When the last rectangle of light had crept off the bed Matt sat up. He moved wordlessly to the edge of the mattress and, with effort, pulled his legs over the edge. Foggy watched him quietly, wondering if he was heading to the bathroom or somewhere else. Matt stood on shaking legs, weak from all the not sleeping and hardly eating, and stepped sluggishly around the bed towards the door. He plucked his windbreaker off its peg on the wall and dug his feet into his sneakers.

“Where you goin’ bud?”

“Out.” Matt croaked. 

Foggy hesitated another second before launching off the bed and scrabbling into his own shoes. He caught up with Matt in the hallway, quietly offered his elbow. Matt accepted and they fell into step.

#

Foggy hailed a cab and Matt emerged from his silence long enough to direct them to an address. The drive wasn’t long, the cab made its way quickly down Broadway, then hooked onto Columbus. Foggy was surprised when they veered out of Hell’s Kitchen and started into Midtown, even more surprised when they pulled up outside Suncourt Cemetery — a tiny swath of green and brown nestled between buildings and wrapped in an iron fence. 

Matt paid the cab driver and shuffled onto the sidewalk. He stopped at the cemetery gate and inhaled. Foggy came up behind him and, after a beat, put a hand on his shoulder.

“We goin’ in?”

Matt hesitated, head tilted like a puppy, and then nodded. “Ya.” He reached out and moved a trembling hand through the air until it touched the gate. He pushed, and caught his breath when the iron screeched to admit them.

As Matt took one hesitant step forward Foggy realized he hadn’t brought his cane. There were a lot of obstacles waiting in there to trip a guy up. He wished he knew better if Matt wanted his help or if he was just there for moral support. As he debated silently with himself Matt turned a little towards him.

“Foggy.”

“Right here buddy.”

“Uh, I have a confession.”

Foggy raised an eyebrow, “Ya?”

“I’ve never gotten this far before. Would you… help me find him?” He reached out his hand and Foggy instinctively stepped up to let Matt take his arm.  

“Who are we looking for bud?”

“Jack Murdock.” Matt’s voice was steady. Foggy was being forced to contend with that little cold knot he’d refused to examine earlier.

“Sure.” He croaked.

It didn’t take long. It was a small cemetery. Matt explained he hadn't been through the gate since he was nine but had a general idea where the stone was. Back left corner, there was a tree. Easy, there was only one tree. It butted up against the iron fence at the back of the narrow lot. The tree looked about as old as the brick buildings on either side, tall and broad and burdened with an overabundance of limbs. It drooped sadly over the gravestones, shading them from the streetlight, blanketing them in dark. Foggy led Matt that way along a narrow walking path and squinted in the dim light to read the headstones. It didn’t take long to find Jack.

"Straight ahead Matt, just a couple steps." 

Matt relinquished Foggy’s arm and shambled the two steps forward. He stood a long time before bending to run his fingers over the words on the stone.

_Jack Murdock, He fought a good fight._

Two months into their relationship and Matt had never talked about his father before. Foggy had grown up in Hell’s Kitchen, he had a vague idea about who Battlin’ Jack Murdock was and what had happened to him. He hadn’t thought about it much 'till now. Unsure of what to do in this situation, he fiddled idly with his hands. Matt was distracted, couldn’t see him for that matter, but Foggy felt a little creepy like he was witnessing something infinitely private. Matt was a private guy. He didn’t like to share. Foggy bit the inside of his lip and turned around, watching instead the cars passing by in the lazy evening traffic. Eventually, just when Foggy was starting to notice the dip in air temperature, Matt slipped his hand back through Foggy’s elbow.

“How you feel, Matt?”

Matt shook his head. Shrugged. Turned his head down to his feet like he was studying something there. Foggy felt his own eyes stinging a little so he let himself shiver dramatically.

“I think there’s a bar nearby. You want a drink?”

“Ya,” Matt croaked. “Let’s do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am definitely making up dates willy nilly but I can't find a canon date for Jack's fight, just the day of the week. Lemme know if I missed it somewhere!


	2. How ‘bout a toast?

This year was going to be different. Foggy was determined.

There was literally nothing Matt could do. Foggy was going to sweep him off his feet and keep him distracted until October 19 had dutifully passed them by. See ya later, October 19, no way we’re slowing down for you this time.

“OK, hear me out, the paper isn’t due ‘till Tuesday next week, this year _it_ falls on a Saturday so we can just take off Friday afternoon and spend the weekend in Vegas or something.”

“Seriously,” Matt scoffed, he already looked tired and _it_ was still days away. “That’s your grand plan to cheer me up on the anniversary of my father's murder. Take the blind guy to Vegas? What, to see a strip tease? Take in a show? Gamble away my student loans?”

Foggy rolled his eyes, “Rolling my eyes here bud. The rejection would sting less without the sarcastic jokes. OK. Yes. That sounds like a bad plan.”

“Ya,” Matt nodded emphatically, “it does.”

“I just mean, it’s a weekend, we could go anywhere and do anything. Get out of the city, take your mind off it completely.”

“I can never take my mind off it completely Foggy,” Matt sighed. He lay back on the mattress and folded his arms behind his head. Foggy watched the rise and fall of Matt’s chest as he lay there, wondering what was going on in that thick skull of his he didn’t want to share. Foggy rubbed his eyes and wished — not for the first time — his best friend would talk to a professional about this shit and not just Foggy.

“I know Matt. I just… you get pretty depressed. I mean, you are teetering on the edge of depressed about 30 percent of the year, but you fall right off around this time and I hate seeing you that way.”

“I know," and a little quieter, "I know." Matt looked like a kid watching the clouds and it just made Foggy feel more helpless.

Last year, after the cemetery, they’d gotten tipsy and gone back to the dorm to crashed. The next morning Matt had been more or less feeling like himself. Happier even. Like he had managed to get through the worst day of his life and it could only get better from there. Everything else the world had for him would be a cakewalk. Problem being, life is kinda cyclical and dates come back around and around. Foggy had casually brought it up at the beginning of the school year (hey, remember the time you were pretty much catatonic for the better part of a week… that gonna be a regular thing?). Matt had played it off like it was nothing. Like not eating, not speaking, catatonic Matt was a totally normal version of Matt that shouldn’t worry Foggy in the slightest. Problem was, now that they knew each other, Foggy knew better about that too.

“I appreciate your concern,” Matt said in a version of his lawyering voice. They practiced that a lot. “But this is just something that happens. I can’t help it. No matter where I am or what I’m doing — I just need a few days. OK? I’ll take a few days off.” Matt sat up abruptly, “Wait, I’ve got it.”

Foggy sat forward in his chair, “What?”

“You can go on a vacation and I’ll stay here. When you get back, it’ll be over!”

“That. That is your plan. I should just leave my depressed friend at home for several days while I take a vacation.”

Matt shrugged. Laid back down.  “It’s better than your plan. You’ll be less worried.”

“You know that’s not true.”

Matt just shrugged.

“Exactly.”

#

Fine. So there wouldn’t be a vacation. No Vegas and no Disney Land (what, it’s the happiest place in the world Matt!). The week spiraled on and Matt predictably started to withdraw. He went to all his classes on Wednesday, one of his classes on Thursday, by the time Friday cycled through Foggy was completely unsurprised to find Matt unwilling to roll out of bed at all.

“I’ll take good notes.” Foggy promised, “and I won’t even hide any puns. Promise.”

Matt gave him an appreciative grunt and rolled over.

Foggy didn’t end up going to class either. Instead, he went to the library and took out a few movies. ‘Finding Nemo’. Hmm. That might be too heavy. Foggy had cried watching ‘Up’. Maybe an action movie then. Star Wars had a lot of daddy issues. Die Hard. Safe bet. Is that what they watched last year? Doesn’t matter. Foggy withdrew four Die Hard films and decided he would download John McClane’s most recent cinematic outing when he got back to the dorm.

Next, he headed to the university supermarket.

Jello. Check. Ice cream. Copious amounts of ice cream. Check. Matt hated most college appropriate snacks, couldn’t stand chips or anything too crunchy or chemically. Foggy wasn’t completely sure what he would agree to eat in his current state so probably stick to safe options. He picked a few yogurts, oatmeal, and some Gatorade to replenish electrolytes or whatever. That sounded like a thing.

Outside the supermarket he hesitated, biting his lip as he considered stopping at Tower One and picking up some pamphlets or something. He shook his head. Matt wouldn’t agree to see a counselor and leaving pamphlets lying around haphazardly would probably have no effect. Even if they did come in braille.

#

Matt was even shittier company on Saturday than he had been the previous year. Something about the day of the week, he had suggested to Foggy, was extra bad. Not just normal October 19 bad. Foggy didn’t have to think hard to figure out what it was. Jack had been murdered on a Saturday night.

Matt didn’t spend much time sitting up listening to the movie, he spent a lot of time curled up in a fetal position holding his hands over his head as though everything was just too much, too loud, _too much._ Foggy set the volume on ‘Die Hard with a Vengeance’ to minimum levels and talked quietly through it in a fake English accent. Every once in awhile Matt’s whole body shuddered and Foggy decided that was a pretty fucked up way to tell him that his English accent was bad.

Around noon, Foggy started rubbing circles on Matt’s back and talking in an almost normal volume about jello. All the great things about jello. It tastes like a fruit. It's wobbly. It looks kinda silly so there's no way to be sad and also eat it. Of course, Matt can't see. Which means he can't see how silly the jello looks or fully appreciate the wobbling. But it's still kinda light and fruity and not too chemically tasting and it's mostly water anyway. You can slurp it through your teeth and it basically dissolves. Sadly, the jello talk garnered no response and Foggy was forced to eat it alone. Turned out jello was not as comforting as Foggy remembered from his childhood and it did taste kinda chemically. Point one for Matt. 

Halfway through ‘Live Free or Die Hard’ Matt rolled onto his back and bit off a weird, choking sob. Foggy felt his whole body freeze and quiet as he held a breath and listened, waiting for Matt to exhale or twitch or do something other than get really still. Matt wet his lips, opened his mouth, said nothing. His chest hitched on an inhale and stopped moving. 

“Hey,” Foggy started softly, resting a hand on Matt’s chest and starting more little circles there. “Just breath OK.”

Matt started to nod very slowly, his eyes scrunched up. Foggy felt that little stomach knot back. “Come on buddy, breath. In and out, OK?”

Matt let out a shuddering exhale and covered his face with his hands. He sucked in a breath and breathed out Foggy's name. 

“Foggy.” 

“Ya bud.”

“Shit.”

“Ya.”

“Fuck.”

“You said it, pal. Keep breathing.”  

Matt continued haggard, stuttering inhales and whooshing, pained exhales throughout the movie. By the time Foggy was starting “A Good Day to Die Hard” Matt had just caught his breath. Foggy didn’t bother narrating this last one, he hadn’t seen it before and all he could manage was a loose description with occasional disbelieving asides, “What even is this plot, Matt. I can’t believe what I’m watching. This flies in the face of Die Hard. This is sacrilege.”  

Eventually, afternoon slipped into evening. Foggy had fallen silent once the movies were over. He watched the familiar rectangles of light shifting sideways off the mattress and listened to Matt inhale and exhale, occasionally reminding him what time it was and to 'just keep breathing Matty.'

The light between slats warmed and cooled, the radiators in the room whirred to life as the air temperature dropped. Matt sat up in bed.

Foggy got up too, he started towards the door to put his shoes on but Matt hadn't moved any further. He teetered on the end of the bed, hands on his thighs. Foggy walked around and knelt next to him. “I’m right in front of you bud, I’m gonna put my hand out.” He reached out to Matt and set a hand on his knee, Matt flinched like he hadn’t expected the touch.

“Hey, Matty?”

Matt slowly adjusted his gaze so that his head was turned more in Foggy’s direction but he didn’t respond.

“We don’t have to go anywhere. We can stay.”

“I…” Matt’s voice sounded rough, even to his own ears. He swallowed painfully and Foggy reached backward for an almost full bottle of Gatorade on the nightstand. He put it into Matt’s hand and Matt dutifully drank, grimacing at the flavor. “I want to go.”

“You sure?”

Matt nodded, lurched forward onto wobbling legs. Foggy offered Matt his coat, directed him towards his shoes, stood helplessly while he counted the seconds it took for Matt to tie his own laces. Matt gripped Foggy’s elbow with both hands on the way out of the dorm. When they got into the cab, Foggy gave the address and Matt leaned against his arm bonelessly.

#

By the time they arrived at the bar near the cemetery, the same run-down, musty establishment they had visited the year previously, color had begun creeping back into Matt’s face. He looked less clammy. He agreed to have some fries with his scotch.

When the alcohol arrived they sat in silence for a few beats before Foggy raised his glass.

“How ‘bout a toast?”

“A toast?” Matt’s voice still didn’t sound right. He was bone tired.

“To battlin’ Jack Murdock.” Foggy blurted.

The edge of Matt’s mouth twitched. He raised his glass. “He fought a good fight.”

And they drank.


	3. 'Till Next Year

“Come on, it’s easy.”

“No Foggy.”

“Matt, please? You’re killing me here.”

Matt gave him a withering look. If looks could kill Foggy would be dead. Point proven.

“Matt, you just go to the website, log in, and book a time. You already know _when_ you’ll need it.”

“I can’t go to a therapist Foggy.”

“Why the fuck not Matt, you need one. We have talked about this. Your issues have issues.”

“I have layers. Like Shrek. Not issues.”

“Now you are being intentionally defiant.”

“I am always intentionally defiant.”

“That, right there, is an issue.”

#

Matt turned over on the bed and muttered something, Foggy almost jumped out of his skin because this was usually the part of the day when Matt didn’t say anything for twelve hours. He hit pause, Bruce Willis looked like he was giving Foggy the same withering look Matt had been practicing yesterday.

“What was that Matt?” he asked quietly, hopefully.

“Foggy, I don’t think I can…” Matt wheezed and Foggy’s heart did a little somersault.

“What, Matt?”

“Fuck.”

Ah, OK, this was at least familiar. Foggy reached out and took one of Matt’s hands in his, kneading his fingers over Matt’s palm.

“I know it feels really bad right now Matt, I know.”

Matt made a small noise caught between a sob and a whimper.

“But you are going to feel better really soon.” There was no amount of pamphlet reading that could prepare Foggy for moments like this. _How to help a friend with depression._   _Taking Care of Yourself While Supporting a Depressed Loved One. When Your Friend Is Depressed...Don't and Dos. My friend has depression: How do I help?_

“I don’t…” Matt started again, his breathing suddenly too fast, “I don’t think I can.”

“Hey, it’s OK.” Foggy squeezed Matt’s hand. “You trust me right? Best friend? Well, I’m telling you, you will feel better soon.”

Matt was sobbing now, he squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with the hand Foggy didn’t have a death grip on. Foggy squeezed and rubbed his little circles and Matt’s chest heaved and strained and he cried until he couldn’t cry anymore. He curled in towards Foggy and fell silent with his damp face pressed against Foggy’s leg, each huff of his breath making a tuft of his hair jump.

Foggy couldn’t reach the tissue box on the nightstand from his position so he smeared his own face juices on the arm of his hoodie. Damnit Murdock. He glanced at the clock. A few more hours ‘till they made the pilgrimage to Suncourt.

“Matt?” Foggy’s voice was wet. He huffed a sigh and scrubbed his face again. He felt about as tired as Matt looked. “Buddy. I need to tell you something.”

He couldn’t tell if Matt had fallen asleep, that little tuft of hair kept blowing out and falling back against Matt’s forehead. He didn’t say anything or try to move. Foggy figured it might be better if Matt were sleeping anyway.

“Matt, I am so fucking worried about you all the fucking time,” Foggy let it out in the woosh of a breath. This was not in the pamphlets. “It’s not fair of me and I know it. It’s not pity, I promise, and it’s not going to make me treat you differently nine-tenths of the year, but listen, this is not healthy bud. Bottling all this in, you are like this weird blind pinata man waiting for someone to come and hit you hard enough for your guts to spill out and I am so not sticking around for that party. It sounds like a sucky party. Not my scene. Listen,” Foggy drew in his own wet breath and felt Matt’s hand tighten in his palm. “I want to be here for you. I _will_ be here for you. But this is not a three days out of the year problem, this is an all year round problem. You are hurting Matt. I hate that you are hurting. All the damn time.”

Matt shook his head against Foggy’s leg but he wasn’t prepared to staunch the flood of words now that he’d gotten started.

“I know that you don’t want to talk to anyone about this. I know you don’t want to go on medication — but Matt — it could help. Year-round help and definitely October 19 help. Asking for and accepting help is not the same as being weak. I know it makes you feel vulnerable, but you are strong. You are resilient and you just need a little help, bud. I am gonna do whatever I can, but I need you to do this. For me. For yourself. I need you to try.”

Matt was very still. He rolled his head to the side just an inch. “You suck,” he breathed and Foggy did, in fact, feel like he sucked. “Foggy,” he croaked, “I ...can’t.” Foggy didn’t know what to say next, was out of words. Everything felt very bleak and very dim and very much like October 19. “But I’ll try,” Matt murmured into Foggy’s leg and the grateful expanding of Foggy's chest said, _that's enough._

#

With familiarity and repetition, Foggy had become more comfortable visiting Suncourt Cemetery. This was year three, after all, and he felt like he knew Matt just about as well as he knew himself.

So when they left the dorm, he made sure Matt had his cane.

When they got in the cab, Foggy gave the address so Matt didn’t have to.

When they arrived at that little patch of green and brown Foggy paid the cab fare and let Matt stand at the iron gate for as long as he needed before going in.

Matt stepped through and wandered down the narrow walking path to where Jack waited under a lonely tree, already starting to drop its leaves despite the windbreak from the buildings on either side.

Foggy hung back, found a bench, and waited until he could see Matt straighten up from the grave. He came slowly to Matt’s side and offered his elbow.

“Till next year, Jack.” He went through the motions of tipping his imaginary hat, “Josie’s is waiting.”


	4. Suffer in Silence

Foggy pulled Karen aside Friday, October 16, just after Matt left the office.

“Does Matt have anything in his calendar for Monday?”

Karen did that thing where she cocked one eyebrow and her eyes got all big and blue and soul-searching. It should have been terrifying but Foggy had a pretty good idea about how to deal with this kind of situation. Plus, he wasn’t really in the mood for deflection. The best way to get past a human lie detector is not to lie, after all. She opened the office calendar on her computer, glanced through.

“Nope. No meetings or anything. Uh, Foggy,” Karen reached out hesitantly and put her hand on Foggy’s knee. “What’s going on?”

How do you tell your secretary that your very capable law partner was just about useless three days of the year? “How did he — seem to you, Karen? You’re good at this.”

“I don’t know about that.” She chuckled and dipped her face a little, blushing. Damnit, blushing Karen was Foggy’s second favourite Karen.“You know him way better than I do.”

“Did he seem … extra quiet?”

She shook her head. “No, he seemed fine. Why?”

Foggy nodded distractedly, “just leave his calendar open for Monday, OK? I don’t think he’ll be in.”

Problem was, Matt had seemed fine. He had kept up with the office gossip, interjected where appropriate, joked and even laughed exactly when Matt would normally have laughed. Foggy wasn’t sure if he was happy or worried. He settled on something hopeful and in between.

#

Foggy arrived at Matt’s apartment Sunday afternoon with the requisite jello, ice cream and DVD’s. No Gatorade. Turned out Matt hated the stuff but had been suffering in literal silence whenever Foggy brought the syrupy drinks into the dorm. Typical. These days, there's less dorm and more swanky bachelor apartment. They're mostly in charge of filling their own fridges. He could trust Matt would have yogurt and oatmeal already in stock. Of course, the food was usually for Foggy anyway.

Foggy wrapped on the door but didn’t wait for a response before letting himself in.

“Hey Matt,” he called into the apartment on his way to the kitchen. “Just putting the ice cream away. No, don’t get up, really.”

“Hey Fog.”

The sound of Matt's voice had Foggy turning on his heels so quickly he almost dropped the tub of ice cream on the floor. Matt had emerged from his bedroom in a hoodie and sweatpants looking only slightly mussed.

“Hey Matt, I… did not expect…”

“For me to be up?” Matt shrugged, was he smiling? Did Foggy have his dates wrong?

“Ya. Usually, you’re halfway to catatonic by now.”

“New leaf.” Matt sat cross-legged in one of his armchairs, facing Foggy while he finished storing groceries. “I’m using the techniques I learned, positive thinking right?”

“Ya,” Foggy huffed, throwing himself down on the couch. “Cognitive behavioural therapy right? What kind of techniques?”

“Recognizing negative thought patterns.” Matt’s eyes drifted down and to the left, he fiddled with the strings on his pants. “Trying to find positive ways to spin those thoughts.”

“Gimme one, shoot.”

“Sure, like — instead of thinking ‘I don’t think I can get out of bed today’...”

“Historically, a problem.”

“I try to remember that I got out of bed yesterday, I’ll get out of bed on Tuesday, and whatever happens in between is fine, because it will pass. Helps take some of the pressure off.”

Foggy nodded slowly, studying Matt’s face. “That’s great Matt.”

Matt shrugged again, there it was, just a slight tremble at the edges of his mouth, a crease between his eyebrows.

“It’s a process,” Matt admitted. “You don’t have to … stay over, or anything.”

Foggy huffed, insulted. “Ya right. I am in this Murdock, I am gonna be all up in your business for the next 42 hours. I am parking myself here, on your very comfortable sofa, and I am not moving until we have toasted to Jack.”

Matt smiled and god, it looked genuine. Not happy, but real. Like Foggy just swept in on a fucking horse and rescued him.

“Thanks, Foggy.”

“Don’t mention it.” Foggy huffed, heart full. 

#

Matt didn’t let Foggy stay on the couch.

“Billboard.” He explained and ushered Foggy into the bedroom. When Foggy attempted to dissuade him from giving up his bed (come on Matt, I know how you feel about your silk sheets) Matt threw a pillow at him. “I’m just as likely to not-sleep out there as I am in here.” His voice sounded rough and he didn’t look like he had much energy to argue. Foggy accepted the bed.

Damn, it was a comfortable bed. Silk sheets — not to be underestimated. Foggy was going to have to get some for his apartment. Maybe it would make everything look and feel slightly less crappy and cobbled together from thrift stores. Ashamed as he was to admit it, he was asleep as soon as he hit the pillow.

Waking up was less pleasant.

There was a noise in the apartment.

Clawing his way out of the haze of deep sleep, Foggy tried to pinpoint what had woken him. Probably just his neighbour stumbling in drunk at one am. Or a cat. It was usually a cat. It took Foggy a minute to remember he wasn’t in his apartment, he was at Matt’s and Matt didn’t have neighbours. With his mind racing for an explanation, Foggy leveraged himself into a sitting position and held his breath. He heard a shuffling noise in the bathroom, just Matt waking up to pee? But then a definite muttered curse and a clatter.

Foggy was on his feet in a second, pawing for the light switch on the wall Matt never used. “Matt?” He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, the sofa was Matt-less. He turned towards the bathroom and just about walked into Matt on his way out.

“Foggy.” Matt grimaced, “I was just…”

“I heard a weird noise…”

“I opened the medicine cabinet and…”

“You’re bleeding.”

“The tweezers fell out… what?”

Foggy reached out and grabbed Matt’s arm, pulling him over to the apartments main light source, a huge billboard, and a flimsy table lamp. Matt stumbled along obediently, biting his lip.

“Matt, what the hell.”

“It’s nothing Foggy, I clipped the bookshelf.”

“And it _cut you with a knife_?”

Foggy was rolling up Matt’s sleeve, there was a short, even slice along Matt’s upper arm. It didn’t look like a scrape. Foggy’s heart was doing somersaults and his stomach knot had grown three sizes, OK, he thought, maybe now it's an ulcer. Matt was giving him ulcers, is this what being an adult is like?

“Matt what the fuck. This is not cognitive behavioural whatever, are you…” his voice hitched and he felt about ready to faint. “Did you do this to yourself?”

“What, Foggy, no.” Matt pulled his arm back. Foggy bit his lip and pulled Matt closer to the lamp.

“You’ve got a black eye.”

Matt reached up and touched the skin next to his right eye, feeling the heat from the bruise. “Ah, OK, Foggy —”

“What the fuck!”

“I just went down to Fogwells for a bit.” Matt breathed out in a rush, “I wanted to… get rid of some built up energy, that’s all.”

Foggy swallowed his next curse, “Serious?”

Matt nodded emphatically. “Serious.”

“You swear it, Murdock? You are telling me the truth?”

Foggy already knew about Matt’s recently acquired habit of spending time at Fogwells, it made a weird kind of sense. There were still posters up in that gym from the night… well, from October 19. Not that Matt would know anything about the wall decor.

“I am telling you the truth.” Matt grimaced.

“OK bud, I am rolling my eyes right now.” Foggy narrated, pushing Matt down into the armchair nearest the window. “Spill, what aren’t you saying.”

Matt allowed himself to be manhandled, landing in the chair with a thud. He shook his head. “OK, it’s not — it’s not just pent up energy. You know.”

Foggy sat down across from Matt on the sofa, leaned forward. “No, I do not know.”

Matt clenched his fists, even in the dim light Foggy could see his hands were cut up too, his knuckles scraped and red. “I’m… angry Fog.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I … I’m always angry. I always was angry, just didn’t know what to do with it all. It felt like this huge weight sitting on my chest that just got heavier the closer it got to the day. I would watch and feel it growing and just feel… powerless.” He shook his head, his voice was breathy and slow like each word hurt him on it’s way out.  “I couldn’t shake it, couldn’t buck it off. It was consuming and paralyzing. I had this… demon… inside of me. Clawing me up. October would roll around and everything would start to ache. Everything.” Matt let out a long shuddering breath, leaning his head back against the leather chair. “And it never went away. Not really. It was just easier to live with the rest of the year.”

“So what’s changed?”

Matt lifted his head towards Foggy, eyes drifting somewhere near his chest. “I have.”

“How Matt?”

“You were right. I … needed to do something. Change something. What I was doing… wasn’t working.”

“So you went to therapy, right?”

Matt nodded, very small, grimacing. “Ya. And I started sparring again, boxing. Letting…” he pursed his lips around his exhale, measuring it to six. “Letting the demon out.”

“And how do you feel?” Foggy glanced at his watch, “It’s 4 AM on October 19. You have already managed more words about your feelings than I have heard you string together in five years.”

Matt’s head bobbed slightly, “Tired. I feel… empty Foggy.”

Foggy’s heart did that flip-flop thing he had come to associate with Matthew Murdock.

“But it’s better. Than the heaviness. For the first time in a long time I know I’m going to get through today.”

Foggy hesitated a second, “Matt.” His voice was wet and shaky and he felt tired too. “I am going to hug you and then we’re starting Die Hard.”

Matt smiled — he smiled — and opened his arms.  


	5. Crowded

Matt had come into the office on Monday with butterfly stitches on his cheek and a fat lip.

He moved gingerly from his desk to the copier. From the copier to the kitchenette. From the kitchenette, haltingly, past Foggy’s door without comment and back into his own office.

Foggy didn’t try to start up a conversation.

He didn’t have much to say.

Papers said it for him. Daredevil had been out, beating up straggling gang members. Looking for a fight, the article said, _looking for a fight_.

Even if Foggy could think of something to say to his best friend, Matt didn’t seem to be in a talking mood. Around four, he got out of his chair, stretched his shoulders like he was carrying a tonne of bricks with his neck, and shrugged into his jacket. Foggy listened to the door opening and closing, the tapping of Matt’s cane as he disappeared down the hallway. Matt had been responsible for parsing some case notes and collecting relevant client information but there were no emails from him in Foggy’s inbox, no new documents on the company server. Whatever Matt had been doing in his office, it hadn’t been work.

Foggy would have to stay late. Do whatever Matt was supposed to do. He dropped his face into his palms and raked his fingers over his skin. No, he decided, time to go home. The office would be closed tomorrow and he and Matt would be spending the day curled up on the sofa watching Die Hard.

Work could wait.

It was a testament to the weirdness of Foggy’s new life that he was looking forward to  October 19. At least one day a year that Matt would need him. A bit of Matt Murdock that he knew intimately, no lies, and that no one else got to see.

#

It had been stupid to imagine October 19 wouldn’t have changed along with everything else in their relationship.

It felt crowded in Matt’s apartment today.

Foggy was on one end of the leather couch and Matt was curled up on the other, hood obscuring his face like he was trying to keep the light out. Maybe it was the whole world he was trying to block from his brain. Now that Foggy knew about the super-senses he wondered how much of Matts energy was expended on days like this keeping everything out.

Maybe it was the copious amounts of ice cream, the jello cups, the beer he’d already started. Maybe it was the fact he had been staring at Matt for three hours already instead of watching Bruce Willis acting stupidly and heroic and impossible. Whatever the cause, Foggy had the distinct impression they weren’t alone.

There was Matt, farthest from him, his best friend. Charming, self-deprecating and the best wingman Foggy had ever had. A guy who made blind jokes and used law jargon at inappropriate intervals and was generally an all-around nerd. Sure, he had issues, he got sad — but he was the best guy that Foggy had ever known.

Then there was Foggy on the opposite end. Younger Foggy. Impossibly chipper and quick with a joke. Eager to please and ready with a hug. He was desperate for Matt to like him, to feel better, to feel safe. This Foggy was the guy who narrated Die Hard in an English accent and stuck Twizzlers up his nose for a laugh.

Then there was something new between them. Separating them. This big snarling grief demon wearing a red and black leather suit with horns. He was clenching and unclenching his bloody fists because he was _so damn angry._ He was angry at being abandoned, left behind, forgotten, pushed aside — you name it — he was angry as fuck and he just wanted to hit something. Hit and hit and hit until everything was blood.

And then, last, there was adult Foggy. He felt older than he actually was and he had about six stomach ulcers from being worried _all the damn time_. He was worried about his friend — that the grief demon would one day get so big and so fierce he’d swallow Matt up whole.

Worried that somewhere small inside him he had his very own grief demon just waiting to be fed. That one day Matt would be gone and Foggy’s grief demon would swallow that hollow emptiness where Matt had been and just want to hit and hit and hit.

The walls felt close in the apartment today.

It felt too small. Foggy wasn’t narrating the film and Matt wasn’t really listening anyway.

Foggy tapped away at his laptop distractedly, trying to get casework done.

Evening rolled around and the brightly coloured squares of light flickering madly through Matt’s living room windows started to dance and move across the wood floor. Foggy was heavy and tired and every bone in his body ached by the time Matt unsteadily rose from the sofa. Stumbled into the hallway. Picked up his coat. Retrieved his cane. Tucked his feet into his shoes.

For an agonizing minute, Foggy considered staying where he was. He waited on the sofa and watched Matt struggling with his laces. Matt didn’t need him, he reminded himself, Matt was the fucking Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen was more than capable of calling a cab and opening a small iron gate and stumbling home. 

Foggy rubbed his face through his hands and forced himself to follow.

_It’s tradition._

_#_

Matt hailed the cab on his own. Gave the address. Paid the driver.

At Suncourt, Foggy slid out his side of the car and stared at the red brick building across the street now flanked by new builds. Big windows. Neon signs. The air was cold. Colder than average this time of year, biting his cheeks above the collar of his coat. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath of that cold night air, heavy with scents and tastes that must be a million times more potent for Matt. He steeled himself for what he could only imagine as an evening of supreme awkwardness. Turned towards the cemetery. 

Matt was still standing at the gate. 

Foggy felt his eyebrows pinch, he walked up behind Matt. One of the streetlights outside the cemetery was flickering. Just a little. Just enough to make the muscle in Matt's cheek jump in time to the buzzing. His arm was extended, bare hand resting on the cold iron latch. That little muscle jumped again. Matt wet his lips. 

Foggy reached out and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. Matt pushed open the gate and stepped through. 

#

Stumbling back from the bar around two in the morning, Foggy turned to Matt and enveloped him in his arms in the biggest, tightest hug his stumpy little arms could manage.

The air around them was cold and the sidewalks were abandoned. For the moment, it was just the two of them under the warm glow of the street lamps and the buzzing neon signs. Foggy twisted his hands in the back of Matt’s jacket and held and held.

Matt hiccuped into Foggy’s shoulder, he smelled like scotch and greasy food and _Matt._ His hands lifted hesitantly to Foggy’s back and then tightened around his shoulders. Matt’s arms were big and strong and probably capable of breaking bones. He gripped Foggy gently at first and then, following a hiccup with a tiny sob, squeezed back.

“Thank you, Foggy.” He managed to breathe into Foggy’s collar. 

Foggy wasn't entirely sure what he was being thanked for.  He didn’t actually have words, an explanation or even a concrete reason for forcing the world to stop and turn around them for a few fleeting moments.

He just wanted to grip, and hold, and never let Matt go.


	6. Been Awhile

The phone rang three times and Foggy hated — hated — what conclusions his mind jumped to first.

After the third ring, the line connected. “Hey," Foggy started into the phone, hesitating when there was no immediate response on the other line. "It's Foggy."

“Ya,” there was hesitation on the other end too. “I mean, hey Foggy."

"Hey yourself." Foggy settled back into his couch, enveloped instantly by the too soft plush of the new leather sofa. He felt the familiar jab of irritation, missing his old, less hungry sofa and the way the cushions didn't try to devour him.  

“It's been awhile." Matt's voice sounded a little haggard, rough, like he was sick or just hadn’t spoken in a long time.

"Ya, it has. I... well I thought I should call today Matt. I know it's a hard day." A pause on the other end of the line and a muffled sound. "Matt?"

“Ya, here. Thank you Fog. I appreciate it."

“No problem buddy. How... are you?"

"In general or today?"

“Either. Let's start generally."

Another muffled sound, like Matt was mussing his hair or rubbing his eyes.  "OK, well, I have a few clients. Nothing big, working on cases from home. It's not a lot but... it's something. Keeping the lights on."

Foggy scoffed. "Keeping the coffee coming more like it."

Matt managed a tired chuckle. "Come to think of it my electricity bill's been pretty low lately."

"Seen Karen?" A long pause that had Foggy biting his lip. "Never mind." He said finally, "what else, generally?"

"Time for the cross-examination," Matt grumbled.

"OK. Let's see. Ah, new job is good? Fairly low on the soul-sucking scale, lower than Landman and Zack at least. Good coworkers. Seeing lots of Marci. We even have our own vigilante--"

"Jessica Jones. Ya, I've heard of her." Matt's voice was a little clipped, right, steering towards dangerous waters with that line of conversation.

Foggy redirected. "Got a big desk. Office chair not pulled out of a dumpster. Fancy office technology like printers that you don't need to kick first."

“Whooo, big times." Matt's voice teased and Foggy couldn't help but smile.

"Hey, this could be you, too Murdock." Silence again. Foggy's smile crumbled and he took a swig from the beer bottle warming in his hand. "Anyway. It's going well. I haven't been fired yet. Had to cut my hair though."

"Shit, but that's where you hide your strength." The tease was back. This time it made Foggy’s eyes burn.

“Moved into a new apartment closer to the office. It's nice, you'd like it. Lofty. Exposed brick. Less billboardy than yours."

"Sounds nice Foggy. You deserve it."

“Thanks." Foggy mumbled. "Uh, I think it's your turn again."

Matt hesitated down the line. "General?"

"Or specific." Foggy inhaled slow, took another drink.

“Haven't been going out in the suit," Matt said in a rush. "It's been, three weeks?"

"Not your priest Murdock."

"Just thought you'd want to know."

"Well," Foggy sighed, "I don't." There was a long minute of silence again but at least no one hung up. He gave in. "How's that working out for you anyway?"

"It's... difficult." Matt’s voice was breathy and pinched. "But I'm managing. So's The Kitchen. I guess... maybe it didn't need me after all."

"It needs you," Foggy said a little too quickly, earnestly, shifting forward on the couch. "It needs Matt Murdock."

"Right."

"Ya. I mean it bud."

"Thanks, Foggy. Your turn."

Foggy shrugged to the empty room, "New apartment has a good view. I can see all the way to the Hudson from here. Pretty high up, thirtieth floor."

"Describe it?"

Foggy leaned forward towards the bank of windows behind the television. "So many lights, I can see every street lamp and neon sign and tacky billboard. I think I can see the back of your billboard if I squint."

"Really? Huh."

"Yep. Keepin' my eye on you bud. You know your world of fire thing? Well, outside the window it's a world of black but with a million little pinpricks punched out of it, all shining different colours up at me. It moves and flickers -- car lights, apartments blinking in and out, the other towers are just arms of light kinda reaching up to the sky."

"Sounds like stars."

“You remember what stars look like?"

“I do now."

Foggy leaned back. Closed his eyes. "Your turn. How are you doing? Today."

“Wasn't awesome." Matt admitted, at least they're past ‘fine’ and ‘okay’ and lying to each other. There was a sigh and when Matt talked again the wet sound was back. "Didn't get much work done. Didn't leave the house."

"Get out of bed?" Foggy asked quietly and he heard a shifting on the other line.

"Ya. Ate, too. So don't worry."

Foggy scrunched his face up in his hands, didn’t say _I always worry._

"So you haven't been to see him yet?"

"No."

"You going tonight?"

"I... I should. Ya. I'll go."

"You don't have to Matt," Foggy said softly.

Matt grunted. "Ya, I do."

"I could meet you." Foggy found himself saying, mentally cursing. This was just supposed to be a phone call. That’s it. Boundaries, his therapist said. Boundaries are important. 

"It's OK, Fog.” Matt hurried with the out Foggy needed, “You don't know... how much I appreciate you calling. Thank you."

"Hey," Foggy smirked around his beer, "it's tradition."

"You drinking something?" Matt's voice faded a little while shifted the phone. 

"You know it."

"A toast, then."

"To Battlin’ Jack." Foggy held up his beer solemnly and imagined Matt, alone in his apartment surrounded by cardboard boxes loaded with case files, no illumination but for the car sales ad currently lighting up the billboard outside his window. Raising a beer.

“To Battlin’ Jack." Matt answered gruffly.

There was a few minutes of silence, neither one willing to hang up, not much more to say. Foggy twisted on the couch to glance at the clock on the wall behind him. A little past 10.  

They both started talking at the same time.

"We should--"

"I think I--"

Foggy smiled, "We should get beers this week. At Josie's? Don't know how she's keeping the lease if we don't at least visit once in awhile."

"Agreed." Matt sounded relieved, he exhaled into the receiver. "Well Counsellor, I should get going. Only a couple hours 'till it's over."

"You'll... you'll be okay Matt. You always are."

"Yep. Always am Foggy. But thank you again for the call."

The line cut out and Foggy lowered his cellphone to his lap. He inhaled, counted to five, breathed it out.

_Damnit, Matt._

“Yippee-ki-yay mother fucker.” Foggy whispered and finished his beer.


	7. Maybe Next Year

The alarm had gone off and Marci had gotten out of bed, how long ago was that? Foggy rolled over and tucked his head under the pillow to stop the light from reaching him.

“Foggy bear,” Marci’s weight dipped the mattress slightly as she climbed onto the bed next to him. Her voice was a purr but she jabbed a finger into Foggy’s ribs mercilessly. “Are you not going to work today?”

Fuggy mumbled something into the pillow but several consecutive jabs seemed to indicate Marci wasn’t letting up. He rolled over to look at her. A perfect fucking angel. How did she end up here?  “I’m taking a personal day.” He managed before burrowing back into the pillow.

“Are you sick?”

“Not a sick day. A personal day.” He growled.

Marci paused a moment. He was acting weird. He knew he was acting weird. He had been weird for months after Matt disappeared and he’d gotten even weirder the closer he got to _this day_. She was being patient with him. It wasn’t in her nature even a little.

“You OK Foggy? Want me to come back tonight?”

“No,” he rolled his head to the side so she could hear him. “It’s just the… the date. It’s the anniversary of … something bad.”

She rubbed a little circle into his back and Foggy felt the old stomach ulcers fire up again.

“I can bring a movie, we can eat junk food…”

“I have something I need to do tonight.” He told her quietly, managed a smile that said ‘I know I suck but I’m trying’.

Marci seemed to get it, she leaned over and gave his ear a nibble. “Just call,” she whispered and got up to leave. Foggy waited until he heard the door open and close behind her and the clicking of high heels dissipated down the hall before burrowing his head back into the bed.

#

Suncourt was just like Foggy remembered it. A little patch of green and brown circled by an iron fence. A single tree at the back. Foggy realized now that the tree was dying. Half its branches hadn’t bothered producing leaves this year. It had probably been dying for a long time.

The cab dropped him off and he hesitated at the gate. It didn’t feel right to go in. It didn’t feel right to leave.

The gate gave a high pitched squeal as it swung open, familiar and frightening. Kinda like the feeling in Foggy’s chest right now. He forced one foot in front of the other, stepped into the dimly lit cemetery. Usually, he would just sit on the bench but there wasn’t anyone else going to visit Jack anymore. He paced the narrow walking path and stopped in front of the headstone, kneeling slowly and reaching out his hand to trace the letters of the name.

_Jack Murdock._

“I…” Foggy’s voice grated, hadn’t been used in awhile. “I don’t think Matt usually talks, but I’m a talker.” He swallowed. “Sorry I didn’t make it last year, Jack.”

Foggy put his face in his hands and scrubbed it hard against his palms.

“Sorry for a lot of things I guess.” He croaked.

He knew he was going to be OK. Tomorrow, he’d get up and go to work. Sometimes, he would be sad. What had Matt said? I got out of bed yesterday, I’ll get out of bed tomorrow, whatever happens in between is fine, because it will pass. The feeling always passed.

One day would cycle into the next and the feeling of heaviness would gradually lessen until Foggy could stand up again without pain. He would go about his life. Things would remind him of Matt and he would take each moment as it came. He would notice the absence, acknowledge it, feel it — and move on.

The date on the death certificate was made up. There was no body, no grave.

Foggy would let himself feel the brunt of it on October 19.

Hands trembling, he withdrew a half-empty flask from his jacket pocket. “You didn’t think I’d forget,” he chided. He unstoppered the bottle, grimaced as the strong smell of Matt’s favourite scotch wafted into his face. He lifted the flask in a toast.  

“To Matt Murdock,” he felt his throat constrict and he wiped furiously at his face. “He fought a good fight.”

The alcohol burned as it slid down his throat.

#

The cemetery isn't empty. It's always empty. 

Matt stops half a block away and listens. He can hear the buzzing of the streetlamps, the lights still on in the retail space across the street. People talking in the buildings, low rumblings of conversation that he relegates to a background hum. Cars passing on the street beside him, many drifting threads of music that don't create a tapestry so much as a cacophony. He can hear heartbeats, so many heartbeats, and one in particular that beats a familiar pattern of worry-worry-worry. It's the familiar heartbeat that has him drifting, standing in the middle of the sidewalk unsure of what to do or where to go. He has to continue, doesn't he? He has to make it to Suncourt. It's the only thing he's allowed himself since Midland Circle. He thought it would be private, he thought it would be safe. 

But there are some traditions that are difficult to abandon. 

As Matt draws closer, there are smells he latches onto. Strawberry jello. Macallan scotch. A light, fruity shampoo that Matt once associated with Marci. Mint toothpaste. Underneath, skin, sweat. A specific scent that he knows the same way he knows the heartbeat. 

It's definitely Foggy.

“Sorry I didn’t make it last year,” the voice seals it.  Matt stops on the other side of the fence, grips the top, fist closing around twisted iron cold to the touch. Last year was hell. Last year Matt made it halfway here and then ducked into a bar, drank, alone, for the rest of the night and stumbled home in the early hours of the morning. Hating himself. This year is worse. But only just. Foggy's heartbeat is steady. Foggy is sorry. The thought makes Matt's head spin, makes his chest hurt. 

“Sorry for a lot of thing’s, I guess.” Again, it's truth. Matt doesn't know what to do with this. He want's at once to turn and run, to step through the gate. 

Foggy’s jacket rustles as he retrieves a metallic flask filled with that pervasive smell of scotch. Matt is dimly aware of Foggy's hair shifting, a strand falling forwards from behind his ear. His hands are shaking, the metallic flask is making a small clinking sound as it taps something. Cufflinks? A button? Foggy wets his lips, a nervous tick he might have picked up from Matt. His heart is pounding, his stomach is gurgling. 

Matt turns away, leans his back against the iron fence and forces his own trembling hands into his pockets. He closes his eyes, inhales deeply. Lets out his breath in a five-count exhale. He can feel something inside him tight and hurting.

He hadn’t expected Foggy to come. Stupid. Matt had spent almost ten years teaching him that this day was important and sad and difficult, that once a year at least, grief had to win.

“To Matt Murdock,” Foggy’s wavering voice makes him sound close enough to touch. To hold. Matt fights to control his breathing, to stay standing, all he wants is to stop fighting. But Murdock’s never quit. “He fought a good fight.” 

Foggy's heart beats truth, he lifts the flask and drinks. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may have gotten a little diluted by the end, but I hope you enjoyed it. Comments are appreciated! Thanks for reading. :)


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